


You'll be older, too

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Jealous Arthur, M/M, Melancholy, Pining Arthur, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's away from Camelot, visiting the druids. The whole citadel awaits his return, but none more impatiently than the king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll be older, too

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Beatles song. See if you can guess which one. 
> 
> Written for the "Established Relationship" and "Curtain Fic" squares on my Merlin-Writers Tropes Bingo Card.

“You hamfisted, lackwitted, dithering numbskull!” Clenching his jaw, Arthur brandished his favourite shirt. Now ruined.

“Yes, sire. Sorry sire.” The maidservent bobbed again, her face averted, voice trembling. “The iron, sire. It was too hot, and… I didn’t...” Her hands clutched at her skirts, and she did another low curtsey.

“And for heaven’s sake stop curtseying! You look like a pigeon!” If Arthur hadn’t been so furious, he’d have found her frantic attempts to placate him amusing.

Thankfully, she did what he asked. But that only served to draw attention to the way that her sobs were growing ever louder.

“And stop that awful noise. I’m not going to feed you to Aithusa, although the gods only know that I’m tempted.”

“Ahem. Ahem. Arthur?”

“What is it, Leon?” Frowning, Arthur turned to his chancellor. He had just been about to express his low opinion of the maidservant’s personal habits and lineage, and round the rant off with a pithy comment about her suitability as a laundrymaid, and he didn’t take kindly to the interruption.

“Er, Sire.” Leon still had a thick mane of hair, despite his advanced age, although his beard was now white. When he spoke, it sounded like he was soothing a petulant child. “Excuse me, my Lord but, when will Merlin be back, exactly?”

“What’s that got to do with my bloody shirt?” With a roar of frustration, Arthur hurled his shirt to the floor and stomped on it.

“He’ll be back soon, Arthur.” Guinevere‘s voice positively throbbed with understanding. “He and Amergin had a lot to discuss.”

Nauseated, that’s how it made him feel. That look of devotion that Leon flashed at her.

“I know that, _Guinevere_.” Arthur’s voice came out as a hiss, probably because he was clenching his teeth together. “I just don’t trust him. This Amer… whatever his name is.”

“Of course you don’t, Sire.” That pursed-lipped expression meant that she was trying not to smile. It did nothing to improve Arthur’s temper.

It was all right for her and bloody Leon. They had each other. Whereas he was having to make do without his prized sorcerer, consort, lover, not to mention his best friend. It was bound to make him feel cranky.

“Well.” Arthur scowled. “This… Amer… thingy. Has only just stopped suckling from his mother. He’s far to be young to be leading a diplomatic mission of this sort.”

“Er… actually, he’s older than you were when you assumed the throne of Camelot, sire. He looks a lot like you did, back then, actually.” She’d obviously given up trying not to smile, because her dimples had started to show. “If I was thirty years younger, and unmarried, I’d find him positively handsome.”

“Well, I feel positively insulted.” Arthur stood up and paced across to the window of his chambers, goblet in hand. “He has no right to be delaying Merlin for so long.”

Turning, he banged his goblet onto the table for emphasis, wine slopping over the side onto some papers, which Guinevere scrambled hastily to reassemble

“Ah. And there is the root of the problem, sire,” She dabbed at the spilled wine with a pocket handkerchief. ”Look, we know you’re missing Merlin, but there’s no need to take it out on the servants. Poor Sefa, here, made an honest mista...”

“Missing him? Dammit, Guinevere, I may be old, but I’m not decrepit. And I’m perfectly capable of running this kingdom without him.”

“Of course you are, Sire.” The pitying tone in Leon’s voice was the last straw.

“That's it. You can all get out!” yelled Arthur. “You’re all dismissed. You, Leon. Get me a new shirt. And get that wailing child out of here before I change my mind about the dragon.” He waved his hand towards the maidservant, and tried to ignore the way that Guinevere put a comforting arm around her shaking shoulders.

When he was alone, Arthur sighed, his bubble of self-righteousness completely deflated.

Sitting, he picked up his quill, intending to go over the latest list of grain shipments out of the kingdom to neighbouring, drought-struck Essetir. But after only a few minutes his mind started to drift. Merlin really had been on this diplomatic mission for long enough. It was the very limit to be stuck here in Camelot without him… without his aid… for so long.

After toying with the pen for a few minutes, he dipped it into the inkwell, reaching for a fresh piece of parchment.

 _Dear Merlin,_ he wrote. _I hesitate to write this, but the place seems curiously dull without your idiotic voice and indignant face. I fear my throwing arm is wasting away. I order you to report to me right away, with certain and precise news of your imminent return. And you might as well let me know how you are getting on, while you’re at it. Yours, Arthur_

He spent a moment, quill poised, before underlining the words _certain and precise_ , twice. Anything could have happened to Merlin. Being now three score and one years old, and as clumsy as ever, without Arthur there to look after him - well, it was an accident waiting to happen. Ignoring the way that his stomach lurched at this thought, he turned back to the page.

_P.S. Also report back on any injuries &c. to your person so that the physicians can collect appropriate herbs &c. in advance of your return. Yours, A._

After blowing on the ink for a minute a two to dry it, he folded the parchment. Dripping red wax onto the join, he carefully sealed this missive with the Pendragon crest. Before he could change his mind, he poked his head round the door and summoned Gwaine.

“Sir Gwaine.” Arthur kept his voice to a pleasant drawl. It wouldn’t do for Gwaine to understand his heightened state of tension. “Would you be so good as to take this to the druid encampment at Caerleon?”

“Any particular encampment, sire?”

“You know which one,” growled Arthur. Gwaine was goading him, he knew he was, but in his current, agitated state, he couldn’t help rising to it.

“It’s just that there are a few, now, in the area…”

“Sir Gwaine. I want you to take this to my consort. Immediately. Is this clear?”

“Oh! _That_ encampment.” Gwaine’s so-called innocent expression wouldn’t fool anybody. “The one where the very handsome druid bard is entertaining your…”

“He’s far from entertaining,” interrupted Arthur, letting a note of menace creep into his voice. “And don’t dawdle. If I hear any reports of you dallying in taverns…”

“Spoil sport.”

It was no good. Despite appearances, and his tavern-fuelled gout, Gwaine was swift, and discreet, which was why he’d called for him. But he could tease Arthur to fury with one word at the best of times.

“Gwaine!” Roaring in indignation, Arthur lifted his goblet and took aim. “Show some respect for your king!”

“Sorry, sire. Spoil sport, _sire_!”

It wasn’t as satisfying as throwing things at Merlin, who, over the years, had taken to turning the sharper objects into butterflies in mid air, but _in extremis_ Gwaine would do. Even at his advanced age, Gwaine was still limber enough to duck in time. And the sound that the goblet made as it pinged off the door was such a satisfying “thunk”.

“Leaving, now, sire. Right away, sire.” Still bending low, and wincing only a little from his arthritic knees, Sir Gwaine backed out of the room. He wasn’t quite out of earshot when he added, “we all miss him too, Princess.”

“Just leave!”

The door slammed closed, and Arthur was with silence and a slightly dented goblet.

During a particularly bad-tempered council session, three days’ later, a large snowy owl flew into the room and circled it three times before dropping a small piece of parchment onto Arthur’s lap. When the owl then vanished in a puff of smoke, no-one could be under any illusions about what it might portend. After all, the owl had no business flying around in broad daylight, let alone showing off its magic tricks like that.

“Merlin!” said Arthur. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t stop a wide smile from spreading across his face, and his latest diatribe at the scrivener, who was currently wringing his fat hands and grovelling at his feet, was entirely forgotten.

An almost inaudible sigh of relief broke out among the surrounding nobles, and one of them even cheered, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to scowl at them.

It was uncharacteristically obedient of Merlin to reply so quickly. Arthur gazed blankly at the small piece of parchment for a moment. On one side it featured a rather hastily scribbled line drawing of a druid encampment. Merlin had circled one of the tents and written, in scruffy script, _“This is my tent! I’ve got a great view from here!”_

Idiot.

Still smiling, Arthur turned the parchment over and read the message on the back.

_Don’t worry, Your Royal Pratness, Sire. I’ll be back in time for your birthday. Try not to sack anyone while I’m gone. Oh, And I miss you. Yours for evermore, Merlin._

Arthur blinked. His birthday. Why, that was only four days hence, on Yuletide Eve. Hastily, he started planning how to greet his consort on his return.

“Ahem.”

“You really need to do something about that cough, Leon.” Looking up, Arthur fixed his chancellor with a steely glare.

He settled back into his chair. With a sigh, he signalled for the scrivener to continue his tale of woe. Four days seemed like a terribly long time, all of a sudden.

*

Three days later, there was still no sign of Merlin, and the fact that the entire court was treading on eggshells was driving him insane.

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll do better next time, sir.” The silversmith backed from him, head bent so that Arthur could see the dark, bald pate peeping out from beneath his silvered curls.

Suddenly finding himself unconsciously massaging the back of his own head beneath his crown, as if to coax his once luxuriant hair back into life, Arthur dropped his hand with a frown.

“See to it that you do! Is there no-one competent around here?” Eyes narrowed, Arthur glared at the goblet. “Surely someone can make a goblet that doesn’t buckle when I apply the tiniest amount of pressure?”

“Arthur. Stop being unreasonable.” Guinevere was the only one with the guts to stand up to his sour mood. “Pewter is a soft metal, you know it is. You shouldn’t abuse the delicate metalwork so. Mastersmith Aelfric is the best smith in Albion.”

Arthur knew this was true, but that didn’t stop him from scowling as he fingered the imprint of his fingertips on the dented pewter. Sighing, he slipped a hand inside his doublet to touch the parchment he kept next to his skin. It had arrived this morning.

He had read the inscription several times, and could recite it by heart.

 _Roses for joy, violets for sorrow_  
_I love you, my clotpoll, and I’ll be home tomorrow_  
_x_  
_p.s. drink this and think of me, birthday boy,_

_x_

He’d woken to find this missive in his chambers, propped up against a fresh jug of honeyed wine and a basket of flowers. Where Merlin had found roses at this time of year, Arthur had no idea. There was no clue about how it had got there, although he suspected machinations involving Aithusa and Guinevere.

Smiling now at the thought, he traced the edges of the soft page with his finger.

“Arthur?”

Sighing, he looked up at the hapless mastersmith, still sprawled at his feet. He leant forward and gently slid one hand under each shoulder.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” he said as he picked him up and dusted him off. “But if you could fix this, I’d be grateful.”

Without another word, he folded the goblet into the gaping man’s grasp. It was one of a pair, gifts dating back to his betrothal to Merlin.

The smith’s eyes lit up.

"Of course, your majesty,” he said, bowing and shuffling backwards towards the door.

As Arthur slumped back onto the throne, crown askew, he felt, rather than saw, the fond smile that Guinevere sent his way, across the crowded council chamber, and tried not to roll his eyes.

*

When he awoke, it was Yuletide Eve and the room was not empty.

Wan dawn sunlight streamed through the window, lighting on a road-weary figure who had just slipped in, his cloak stained and his face lined with care.

Half-asleep, Arthur felt his chest expand and his heart grow to fill his ribcage.

“You’re back.” Rumpling his hair with one hand, Arthur yawned. Slowly, he swung his stiff legs out of the bed with a wince.

With a low chuckle, Merlin crossed the room and knelt at his feet.

“Allow me,” he said, looking up at Arthur with a light in his eyes and a soft smile on his face.

With deft fingers, he started to dress Arthur where he sat, sleep-mussed and pliant.

“You don’t have to do this, Merlin.” Surely his consort was tired. “I can call for a bath for you.”

“I need to do this, Arthur. I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.” He hummed as he worked.

Looking up, though his sight was dimmer than it once was, Arthur could see a tray of fruit and cured meats set out for him on the table, with a steaming goblet of honeyed mead. No-one had thought to bring him this delicacy for so long that he’d forgotten how it tasted.

“How was the oh-so-talented Amerthingywatsit?” he said sourly, when Merlin turned away for a second to rummage in his wardrobe for a tunic.

“Amergin? He’s a promising musician,” said Merlin, over his shoulder, quirking a mischievous eyebrow. “Devastatingly good-looking. Handsome, polite. We should invite him to court. He’d go down a bomb with the ladies.”

“Perhaps you should have stayed with him.” Feeling his lips turn down sulkily, Arthur jabbed his foot viciously into his boot. "If he's so handsome." 

“Oh, Arthur! Gwen told me you’d been more bear-like than usual while I was gone.” Merlin laughed, the uncaring sod. Standing, he placed a chaste kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “Don’t be silly, you jealous old thing. I’m not going anywhere, clotpoll! You keep forgetting that I’m growing older, too. You’ll always be my king, Arthur. I’ll never have eyes for anyone but you.”

“Really?” Of course these were the words that Arthur wanted to hear, but he still couldn’t help worrying.

“Really. Through thick and thin.”

“Thank you. For coming back to me, I mean.”

“I didn’t have a lot of choice, remember? You threatened to shove the sword back in the stone and follow me to the ends of the earth if I didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t have stayed away, anyway.” He knew this was true, had always known it was true, really. Deep down.

“I know,” said Merlin. Bending, he grasped Arthur’s head between both his hands, and angled it up for the kiss.

“You stink,” said Arthur, breathless, when they came up for air.

“Your manners haven’t improved.” Merlin rolled his eyes.

“I have impeccable manners,” drawled Arthur, much recovered. “And a superb sense of smell. Now, about that bath. You can get clean while I have my breakfast.”

“Ungrateful prat.” Smiling, Merlin shrugged off his cloak and strode to the door to call for a servant to bring a bath.

“Merlin?”

Merlin paused at the door, lifting an enquiring eyebrow.

“I missed you, you know.”

“I know.” Merlin’s smile could have outshone the sun.

It warmed Arthur’s cold, old bones.

*

Escaping from your own birthday banquet is never easy.

For a start off, Arthur’s wit must have been particularly sparkling this evening. All the courtiers who had been avoiding him for what had seemed like weeks were hanging onto every word.

Not that Arthur was complaining. He felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

And then, there was a particularly fine troop of troubadours, who had the whole citadel on their feet. First, Guinevere had spun him round the dance floor, then Lady Helen, then Lady Elaine, and then all the ladies of the court, one after the other without seeming surcease, and one or two of the men. And it was his birthday celebration, after all. It would have been churlish to refuse their attentions.

Merlin was equally in demand, particularly with the serving staff, who seemed to be taking his return as a cause for celebration in itself.

Merlin was the first to excuse himself, thanks to his lengthy and tiring travails with the druids. In the middle of a particularly energetic dance he galloped, together with his laughing dance partner, towards Arthur, and pulled him away by his hand.

“This is Sefa,” Merlin yelled above the din, “Dance with her for me, will you? I’m too tired. I’m off to bed. Now, don’t be a prat! And don’t be too late back!”

“All right,” said Arthur, laughing, at the poor maid’s terrified expression. “Come on, Sefa!”

“Remember not to be late!” Wagging an admonishing finger, Merlin mock-frowned at Arthur, who tugged the protesting maid away towards the dance floor. “Or I’ll lock the door.”

“I won’t,” promised Arthur, twirling Sefa about until her skirts flew wide and she collapsed in a heap of giggles into his arms. Roaring, he gathered her up and whirled around the room until they were both bright pink and breathless with laughter.

After that, all the serving girls wanted to have a turn at dancing with the king. So, he might have been a bit late back to bed.

The guards escorting him to his chambers guided him gently along the corridor, and he dismissed them. It was only after the sound of their boots had faded away that he remembered Merlin’s threat to lock him out.

Nervously, he tried the door, but thankfully the knob gave under his hand.

As he crossed the room, removing his belt with a groan, peaceful snores grew louder and louder. In the dim candlelight, he could just about make out a large warlock-shaped hummock, plumb in the middle of the royal bed. 

"Move over, you great heavy lump." With a wry smile, Arthur slipped under the counterpane, pushing Merlin across to make room for himself.

Merlin turned in his sleep to drape a possessive, if bony arm over him. The snoring stopped, replaced by a gentle murmur.

“Happy birthday, old man.” Merlin always delighted in reminding Arthur that he was, by three years, the older of the two.

But as long as Merlin still needed him, and still brought him honeyed mead with his breakfast, he knew he had his warlock’s love.

Sighing, Arthur closed his eyes, and peace reigned over the citadel once more. 

 

*THE END*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters belong to BBC and Shine Productions. I'm not getting paid for this endeavour.


End file.
